


Desperation

by Sky_kiss



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Demons, Demon Summoning, F/M, Firebending & Firebenders, Incubus!Ozai, Living a boring life in the Earth Kingdom, Power Dynamics, She's chilling out with those perfume making nuns, Soul Bond, Succubi & Incubi, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Until she summons a demon, Ursa is a refugee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 15:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: Orphaned at a young age, Ursa grows up under the care of nuns in the Earth Kingdom. They are kind to her; it is a comfortable life. But she is a daughter of fire and she longs for adventure. One night, after discovering a book in their library, a dark spirit with gold eyes  visits her in her dreams. He promises her the life she so longs for if only she'll free him.





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy this bit of weirdness. Please remember I love you all. I'm very sorry.

The tome is innocuous enough. Black, unmarred by any text. It is so plain that many would overlook its presence entirely. And many have. Ursa alone returns to the library, night after night, her vigil lonely and unfulfilling. The young woman’s fingers twitch, curling, extending. 

She always stop before her fingers brush the spine. Contact would somehow make this too real.

The other girls think her mad for her fixation. It is a rumor, and nothing more, circulated by the elder postulants, dismissed by the nuns. They whisper in the dark, curled together and giggling. They say there are wicked secrets hidden away in the library. That they are entrusted to keep these secrets safe from the world. The content varies depending on the orator. 

Some say they look after ancient bending scrolls, dark arts with the power to unmake the world. Some say they are merely histories of the old world. Factual recollections unmarred by political dogma. Some say there is a gateway hidden deep beneath the library itself, one of the portals to the spirit realm. They are fanciful tales. Most fade out after the first circulation. 

But there is one telling that always remains and this is the reason she keeps her vigil. They speak of a simple tome, black and unmarked; they speak of the spirit bound within. A creature of avarice, of lust, those two sins bleeding into each other quite seamlessly. It holds a particular power over the covent’s young woman. Ursa has fallen asleep with a dull ache between her thighs more than once after a particularly...spirited retelling.

Curiosity has driven her to this point. Curiosity and desperation. She is not meant for the abbey. She is not meant to spend her days reciting tired prayers to the spirits or her evenings crafting perfumes. Adventure is in her blood, as vibrant as her cursed golden eyes. 

She raises her hand, fingers outstretched. Electric energy licks along the length of her spine. 

Ursa bites the inside of her cheek. She strokes the tips of her fingers across the tome. It is softer than she might have expected, the texture not unlike that of leather or human skin. The postulant stops, stark still, listening for any sounds of movement. It is too late for any respectable woman to walk the courtyard and yet she cannot force herself to relax. Her nerves are singing. Heat seems to radiate from the book outward, comfortable, soothing, alive. It feels good in her hand. It feels right. 

The postulant frowns when she opens the book. The first six pages are blank. The rest is written in a language she cannot understand. It is the pictures she fixates on. The artist was clearly talented. Some are simple: the bust of a young man (more handsome than the few she has been lucky enough to meet), an archaic symbol. Some are more…

...explicit. Ursa makes a choked noise, slamming the book shut. The images remain burned into her mental canvas. Bodies lovingly entwined, kissing, touching, various degradations she only barely understands. Her throat feels tight; her legs are unsteady. 

She should return the book. It is...indecent. 

Ursa tucks it under her arm. She crosses the courtyard silently, making her way back to her quarters. She tucks the tome safely beneath her threadbare mattress and wills herself to sleep. 

She dreams of a young man with golden eyes.  
_____

The postulants are not permitted to leave the abbey. Mother says it is for their own safety. This portion of the Earth Kingdom is lawless. They are too far from either Omashu or Ba Sing Se to merit dedicated patrols and so bandits frequent their roads. Some exceptions were made during the day. Ursa herself had escorted a shipment of their perfumes once in the past. Night time escapades were strictly forbidden. 

Ursa is not afraid. She is not like these Earth Kingdom girls. Fire courses through her veins, colors her eyes, her complexion, her coal dark hair. She is the daughter of dragons. She fashions one of her spare aprons into a makeshift satchel. In it, she places the tome, three candles, and what little remained of her evening meal. After midnight, she slips from the postulants wing. 

The walls around the abbey were never meant to hold her. She has scaled them since she was barely nine. Ursa moves with sure footed determination, tossing the satchel over first and then following, soundless. One of these days she will climb this wall and never return. 

That thought always brings her comfort.  
_____

She huddles in the dark. Cold nips at her skin but she barely registers the sensation. On her left, the first of her candles is burned down almost to nothing. The tome rests in her lap. She has thumbed through it twice already, struggling to make sense of the words. 

On the third readthrough she lingers. There are bits and pieces that...seem to make sense to her. She drags her fingers over the text, brow furrowing. The words seem to twist and sway in the flickering light, a clever illusion fabricated by her overtired mind. She blinks once and they return to normal.

She lingers on the portrait of the young man. Ursa frowns, feeling girlish, embarrassed, as she traces the line of his cheek. He reminds her of a prince. His jaw is strong, the right corner of his lips ticked up in a knowing smirk. He is confident and powerful and beautiful. She has never known a man like him. If she remains at the abbey she never will.

The notion leaves her feeling strangely melancholy. Ursa grabs the second candle from her pack and lights it. She cannot bring herself to return. Not yet.  
_____

Her last candle is flickering now, nearly dead. Dawn will soon color the horizon. 

The young woman’s mouth is dry. 

She can read it. Every word. Every passage. The tome is seemingly written in her native tongue. She feels a satisfaction unlike any other. It is not unlike love or acceptance. As if she is finally whole, finally free. The young woman grins, flipping back through the pages until she finds her prince. She can read the text under the portrait. One word. A name. 

Ozai. Her prince’s name is Ozai.  
_____

Mother comments on the improvement in her mood. And the dark bags beneath her eyes. Ursa does not lie to her. It would be wrong. The spirits would know and the spirits would judge her. So she speaks the truth. The Fire Nation girl bows her head, her voice quiet and contrite, “Forgive me, Mother. I have not been sleeping well these past nights.” 

“What has changed, child?” 

She doesn't know how to answer at first. Ursa frowns, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, “My dreams, I suppose. They make it...difficult.” 

“They are dark dreams?” 

She shakes her head, “No. No, not at all. Just...new. I’ve been reading. I cannot help but think of far off places. Exciting, exotic.”

Mother’s face relaxes, shifting to a more neutral state. She has heard this story before. Spirits, Ursa has said as much to her in the past. She reaches out with one wizened hand, setting it on the postulant’s shoulder, “These are good dreams to have, my child. Only be careful you do not allow them to carry you away.” 

Something inside her rankles at the words. Remaining rooted here was fine for a child of the Earth Kingdom. But she is Fire; she is a dragon. She longs to feel the sun on her skin and the wind beneath her wings. 

That night she dreams of her prince. He comes to her, dressed in red, smirking, knowing. He crooks one finger towards her and draws her into the flame.  
_____

Ursa cannot sleep. Her dreams are fitful and so she walks the courtyard. The night is clear, illuminated by thousands of stars. The moon is full, bathing the world in silvery light. She tips her head back, smiling. 

The nuns feared these nights. The fulls moons and the solstices set the elder women on edge. Such events were nearly mystical, drawing the mortal and spirits worlds closer together. The more powerful spirits could even bridge the gap. Ursa clutches her arms about herself, a gust of wind leaving her chilled. She wishes for flame. 

A second thought, unbidden, insidious, coils in the recesses over her mind.

She wishes for her prince. Ozai would be full of feverish heat. He would clutch her near to him and she would never feel cold again. She blinks against the strength of the sentiment, suddenly breathless. There is an ache every time she speaks his name. It pulls at something in her blood. In her very being. 

She wants to feel his hands on her. She wants to kiss him and be kissed. She wants to explore the differences between their bodies and feel his weight over her, under her…

Pain breaks her momentary trance. Ursa shakes out her right hand. There are crescents of blood left emblazoned in the pale flesh, little marks where her nails broke skin. She feels...breathless, lost, wanting. There is a coiled want deep in her belly, stretching out until it seems to vibrate throughout the whole of her body. 

She is ashamed. Ursa looks down. She swipes her tongue along the seam of her lips, wetting them. Her mouth is dry. She is parched. 

The young woman lifts her head. 

Ozai is standing across the courtyard, leaned against the far wall. He is bathed in silvery moonlight, the already sharp angles of his face exaggerated by uneven shadows. He is more beautiful in person, tall and strong. She meets his eyes and holds them.

His eyes glitter in the darkness, illuminated by a light all their own. They are gold, violent and bright. 

He is a dragon. He is a demon. 

She cannot say which and it frightens her. Ozai pushes away from his perch. He moves with an unearthly grace, almost liquid. She forces her to look at his face, never allows her attention to wander. That voice in her head (Mother’s voice, the epitome of reason and self preservation) screams at her to run. He is an unnatural being. 

“You’re an intrepid little creature, aren’t you?” his voice is like silk, smooth and low. It is only the undercurrent that jars her. A rasping quality that is not precisely kind. He stops before her, hands linked at the small of his back. He is even taller than she anticipated. Ursa is left tipping her head back to observe him. The amused quirk to his lip says he enjoys this imbalance. “For centuries I have been left to my long sleep, awaiting my savior.” Ozai smirks, stepping nearer. She shifts away on instinct. His heat radiates across the scant space between them. “And what a beautiful heroine she is.” 

She will not let her be cowed. She squares her shoulders, voice even and strong, “Who are you?” 

He chuckles, reaching out to cup her cheek. This time she cannot bring herself to move away, “Ah, but you know my name, Ursa. I’ve so longed to hear you use it…” 

And it trips off her tongue, poisonous and colored with want, “Ozai.” 

“Ozai, my dear one. And how grateful I am for your intercession.” 

His touch dips lower, caressing the line of her throat. Ursa swallows. His thumb is pressed to the underside of her jaw, right at her pulse, “You were in danger?” 

“No, no danger,” he smiles, stepping away from her. Ozai strokes the back of his fingers along her clavicle, over her shoulder. The spirit moves (stalks, he stalks, a predator, hunting) around in her, circling. She shiver when he brushes her hair away from her neck, “Raava’s minions do not have the stomach for killing. And so they bound me to this place. Unable to free myself, needing a mortal to stumble across my tomb…”

“I freed you.” 

He smiles, stepping into her. Ursa bites down on her lower lip, fighting down the need to groan. He is solid at her back, one of his palms settling over her belly. Ozai traces the shell of her ear with his teeth. His fingers curl in the front of her dress, “Yes, you did.”

She needs to run. He is a dark spirit; he cannot be here.

The low rumble of his voice chases through her and she shivers, groaning as he drags his lips over her shoulders. His tongue flicks at the underside of her jaw and she feels...coiled. Ozai chuckles again, tweaking his nose against her cheek, “You cannot know how eager I’ve been to touch you, Ursa.” She groans, pressing back against him. Her eyes drift shut. His touch strays lower, feathering over her hip. “Your mind is a fertile pasture but I could not explore beyond those virginal imaginings…”

He cups her breast, thumb smoothing over her nipple. The heat of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric and she whines, pressing into his touch. 

There is a sharper edge to his voice. He clutches her hip, dragging her flat against him. Ozai is half hard against her. Instinct overrides common sense. It is rhythm coded deep in her blood, as she rolls her hips back, half desperate, almost drunk. He is rasping, “It would be the sweetest revenge to take you like this. Defiling one of Raava’s virgins here in their house of worship.” His touch falls away from her breast, drifting upwards. He curls one finger beneath her chin, turning her to face him, “But you deserve more than that. Don’t you, my dear one?”

Again, reason cedes to instinct and she kisses him. It is fumbling and sloppy. Her teeth crash against his more than once, her frenzy leaving her graceless. Ursa tangles her hands in his hair, needing him close, wanting to feel him. She breaks away, panting for air and unsatisfied.

Ozai regards her, his brows furrowed. There is something softer in his face. Her prince steps away from her, crossing the courtyard.

“You’re leaving…?” She feels breathless. She feels...hurt.

He hums, “Dream of me, little dove.” 

And he is gone. Ursa is left alone in the courtyard, cold and unfulfilled.  
_____

She dreams of him and he always answers. 

Ozai waits for her in that nebulous space, her subconscious given shape. He strokes her face before he kisses her, softly, slowly, teaching. She is an eager student, willing to drown in him. He tastes like fire. He tastes like ash. He tastes like power. 

She clutches him to her, whining as his teeth play over her throat. 

She wants him. 

“We are bound together, Ursa. You freed me,” he smiles against her skin, hands straying to her hip. He cannot venture further, cannot touch her skin no matter how desperately she wills it. Not in the dream. Not here. 

“You left me.” 

His teeth sink into her skin and she cries out, her nails digging into his shoulders. Pleasure and pain washes over her senses in equal measure, leaves her writhing against him, “It is Raava’s abbey, my dear one, and Raava’s subjects watch over it. I cannot have you so long as you remain…” 

She frowns, tries to even out her breathing, “And if I ran away…?” 

Ozai purrs against her throat, “Then I would walk this world with you.” 

He paints this future for her, breathes it against the rise of her breasts. It is cut exclusively for the pair of them. He is power and he is fire and he will build them a new kingdom from the ashes.  
_____

She awakens just before dawn. The air is chill enough to leave her shivering. The young woman pulls her knees up to her chest. That latent fear is back, oppressively heavy on her chest. She wants him. She wants to run. But she hesitates. 

The abbey is all she has ever known. The abbey is safe. 

Ozai is far from safe. Ozai could kill her, hurt her, leave her…

He won’t. And it’s his voice in her head. Not Mother’s but his. Smoothing over her ravaged nerves, familiar like a lover’s kiss. She is his dear one; she is his savior. 

He will burn his world. He will remake it. She is safe. She is precious. He will never singe so much as a hair on her head. That is his promise. 

______

So she runs. She has no money. No belongings aside from a spare set of travelling clothes. She tucks these under her arm along with the book and slips out into the half light. It will be another hour yet before the nuns begin to stir. Her nerves are singing. Ozai’s is purring to her. 

Soon. They will be reunited so soon. They will be one.

She makes the journey one final time, climbing the wall with sure steps, dropping silently to the earth. She does not run so much as she flies, the cold air kissing at her skin. She is born of fire and finally she will taste it, own it, let it consume her. She runs until her lungs burn and she can run no more. 

That night, miles between her and the abbey, she takes shelter beneath a copse of trees. 

She dreams of her prince. 

He comes to her, bathed in moonlight, smirking and satisfied and hers. The spirit kneels before her. When she reaches for him he is solid. He is feverish heat and desire. 

And when he takes her. When he is finally nestled between her thighs, his skin hot enough to burn her, to consume her, to unmake her. When she screams, his name a litany and a prayer. When he purrs her name like vow against her sweat soaked skin. Then she is finally free.


End file.
